


Ozai's Love

by hearmerory



Series: Change of Address [8]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Autistic Zuko, Azula (Avatar) Needs a Hug, Blood, Blood and Injury, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Child Sexual Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Crazy Azula (Avatar), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gay Zuko (Avatar), Homophobia, Hurt Zuko (Avatar), M/M, Major Character Injury, Mental Illness, Non-Consensual Touching, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, Ozai (Avatar) is an Asshole, Parent/Child Incest, Protective Azula (Avatar), Psychological Torture, Psychosis, Psychotic Azula, Schizophrenia, Sensory Deprivation, Sensory Overload, Sexual Abuse, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Trauma, Zuko (Avatar) Angst, Zuko (Avatar) whump, Zuko's Childhood (Avatar), Zuko's Scar (Avatar), bad things happen, hurt to write hurts to read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:49:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26615491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearmerory/pseuds/hearmerory
Summary: Uncle had hugged him tight and asked him topleasereconsider. Had practically begged Zuko to stay.But Zuko had worked too hard, for too long, not to take the opportunity to earn back his father’s love.It was only once he had opened the door to his childhood bedroom and found Azula’s new training room, once he had been shown to the empty spare room with no bed, once he had been refused dinner, once he had been struck around the face by rough, familiar hands, that he remembered that Ozai’s love was very different to Iroh’s.Ozai’s love hurt.Ozai’s love burned.The summer Zuko spent back at his father’s house the year he turned sixteen.
Relationships: Azula & Ozai (Avatar), Azula & Zuko (Avatar), Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), Ozai & Zuko (Avatar), Ozai/Zuko (Avatar)
Series: Change of Address [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1928572
Comments: 61
Kudos: 463





	Ozai's Love

**Author's Note:**

> This.... is traumatic. Please read the tags.
> 
> If you would rather not read this installment, but you still want an overview of the plot (which is kinda necessary for the rest of the series) check out the end notes. I’ll summarize there in a less traumatic way.

Zuko’s scar tingled under his father’s intense scrutiny.

It had only been three days since he’d packed a small bag at Uncle’s house and got into the car Father had sent.

Uncle had hugged him tight and asked him to _please_ reconsider. Had practically begged Zuko to stay.

But Zuko had worked too hard, for too long, not to take the opportunity to earn back his father’s love.

It was only once he had opened the door to his childhood bedroom and found Azula’s training room, once he had been shown to the empty spare room with no bed, once he had been refused dinner, once he had been struck around the face by rough, familiar hands, that he remembered that Ozai’s love was very different to Iroh’s.

Ozai’s love hurt.

Ozai’s love burned.

Azula sat opposite him at the dining table, Ozai at the head.

Ozai was on his blind side, and Zuko kept his head low and tilted slightly towards his father, trying to track his movements.

They waited in silence.

Food cooled on their plates.

Zuko breathed, as Uncle had taught him, keeping his balance, keeping his body still even as fear spiked through it. Even as the silence grated against his good ear. Even as his hands itched to jerk, to tap, to rub against the rough underside of the table, just to _feel_ something.

This was so different to dinner at Uncle’s, with warm cups of tea and booming laughter and stupid philosophical discussions Zuko could never quite get his head around.

“Azula, you may eat,” Ozai stated flatly. Azula bowed her head.

“Thank you, Father,” she said respectfully. She waited until Ozai picked up his own knife and fork before following. She waited until Ozai ate before echoing his movement.

Zuko waited.

Zuko silenced his stomach as it tried to growl.

He was so hungry. He hadn’t eaten since before he’d last slept, and he couldn’t quite remember when that was. The world swam slightly in front of him.

The order to eat didn't come.

He felt tears of shame and embarrassment prickle the corner of his good eye.

Why was he _like_ this? Why did he have to cry all the damned time? Why hadn’t he done enough to earn the food in front of him? Azula clearly had.

The food wilted as it went cold, and the silence echoed in his brain.

Azula put down her cutlery as soon as Ozai did, leaving the last few mouthfuls uneaten on her plate.

Zuko clenched his abdomen, tensing for harsh words or blows.

“Azula, you may leave the table,” Ozai spared his daughter a nod and a small smile, and she stood, bowed, and left in silence.

Zuko couldn’t bear to look over to his father. He didn’t want to see the cruel disappointment on his face.

“Zuko,” Ozai snapped. Zuko held in his flinch, barely moving as his heart raced. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

Zuko looked up from his plate to meet his father’s eyes so quickly his neck hurt.

“Azula says you’ve improved. Your grades are passable. You haven’t managed to overtly disgrace yourself since you left my house.”

Zuko’s eyes itched at the prolonged eye contact, but he forced himself to keep looking. He blinked every three seconds exactly, trying to steady his heartbeat at the same time.

“Yes, Father,” he spoke clearly.

“It appears that you may have reformed enough to warrant my allowing you to stay here. We will be testing that.”

“Yes, Father,” Zuko bit down on the inside of his lip. What did that mean? Was the lack of food and rest part of a test?

“However, Azula had no useful information on the other matter,” Ozai’s lip curled in disgust.

“The... the other matter, Father?” Zuko felt his heart sinking.

“If you remember,” he gritted his teeth, “part of your little temper tantrum was because you refused to engage with Ukano’s daughter, Mai. You made it quite clear, in front of everyone, that you did not wish to speak to her further because she wasn’t a _boy_.”

Zuko’s mouth went dry, fear clenching in his stomach.

“I... I don’t...”

“Do you still harbor disgraceful thoughts, Zuko?” Ozai sounded dangerously silky, as though he was trying to be kind. Zuko swallowed.

“I don’t... I’m...”

“Speak!” Ozai roared, slamming a hand down on the table. Zuko flinched back, startled by the sudden burst of anger. “Tell me the truth!”

“I don’t know!” Zuko scooted his chair backwards, away from his father, breaking eye contact entirely.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Ozai growled. Zuko gripped the sides of his chair, digging wood deep into the flesh of his palms. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. Words tumbled through his head, and he had no idea which ones to say.

He couldn’t tell Father about the boy at the taco food truck with the deep brown eyes and the bright white smile.

He couldn’t tell Father about the boys on his mixed martial arts team, flushed with exertion and damp after showers.

He couldn’t tell Father about the one time he had kissed a girl and felt absolutely nothing but a vague feeling of wrongness.

He couldn’t tell Father about the moans Jet had ripped from him, or the tingling bruises he’d left on his hips, or the electric spark of Jet’s mouth on his.

But secrets were bad. Secrets meant you were hiding from your punishment. Secrets meant you were weak, and scared, and avoiding what you deserved.

“I don’t... I don’t think...”

“Have you kissed a boy, Zuko?” Ozai was quiet now, anger simmering below the surface of his smooth voice. Zuko’s breath hitched.

He didn’t know what to say.

“Yes,” he whispered.

Ozai launched to his feet, and Zuko scrambled out of his chair, panic boiling through his veins.

“You should be _ashamed_ ,” Ozai hissed, his face contorting with rage. “You disgrace me!”

“I—I’m sorry, Father,” Zuko stammered, backing away. He could feel tremors of fear in his muscles. He felt the phantom, pricking heat in his scar.

“Say it!” Ozai stepped towards his son, closing the gap, and grabbed him by the shoulders. Zuko’s teeth smashed together as Ozai shook him hard.

“Say what?” Zuko tensed under his father’s unrelenting grip, fingernails digging into his shoulders.

“Say you are ashamed! Say you are disgraceful, and disgusting, and wrong! Confess your sins!”

“I...” Zuko flinched through another bout of shaking, his vision spinning as his brain hit the front of his skull.

“Say it!”

One hand left his shoulder, the other tightening to keep him upright, and a fist slammed into his face. Blood spurted from his nose and Zuko choked as he breathed it in.

Another punch to the side of his jaw rattled his head, his ears ringing.

“Say it!”

“I—I—I’m ashamed,” Zuko sputtered. Anything to avoid more blows to his aching face. “I am... d-disgraceful. Disgusting.”

“I’m glad we’ve found something to agree on,” Ozai spat.

Suddenly, he was being yanked around and slammed into the wall, face first. His head hit the wall with a bang, and Zuko’s eyes widened in pain and shock.

Ozai was close. Too close. Zuko could feel his panting breaths on the back of his neck, too warm and too ragged.

Zuko tried to pull away, tried to break the strong hold on the back of his neck and on his wrists, held tight behind him. He couldn’t do anything.

Panic rose in his chest as he tried to move, tried to escape. He didn’t like this. He didn’t understand. He wanted to leave.

“Stay _still_ , boy,” Ozai pulled him off the wall and slammed him back against it, knocking all the air from his lungs.

“Father, please, please, let me go, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I won’t do anything, I swear, I’m sorry!” Zuko didn’t quite know where the paralyzing terror was coming from. But he felt it, deep in his bones as his father hovered in his blind spot.

“Shut up!” Ozai roared, “I don’t want to hear you blathering like a fucking idiot anymore. I should have known you were one of them. Always trailing around after your mother. Always crying, and soft, and stupid. How _dare_ you?”

He slammed Zuko into the wall again, and Zuko felt his vision fading, terror and panic bursting in every nerve and vein.

“Maybe you didn’t learn your lesson well enough,” Ozai hissed into his ear, leaning forward and moving his hand from the back of Zuko’s neck to trace the outline of the scar.

Zuko whimpered.

“Maybe you need to learn a new lesson.”

Zuko couldn’t move. His entire body locked down in terror, phantom pain already blossoming on the unmarked side of his face.

But the heat didn’t come.

Ozai fisted his hand into Zuko’s hair and held tight. His other hand moved down to undo the button of Zuko’s jeans.

Zuko froze.

With one swift yank, his jeans were around his knees, and with another, his underwear joined.

Zuko stared, wide eyed, at the wall he’d been slammed against, his heart pounding in his ears.

His mind went completely blank with shock.

Without warning, he was pulled away from the wall by his hair, and forced downwards, slamming hard onto his knees.

A large, warm, terrifying hand ran down his back and pushed down hard between his shoulder blades, forcing him into a prostrating bow.

“I will teach you,” Ozai growled into his ear. “I will teach you just how wrong, and foul it is.”

“F-Father, p-please,” Zuko managed to stammer out. Ozai ignored him completely.

Ozai didn’t speak as he shoved Zuko’s face into the floor, pushing firmly to keep him down. Zuko couldn’t breathe, his lungs full of leaden fear.

Ozai tangled one hand in his hair, and dragged the other down his spine, rucking up his t-shirt, until he paused to press down a little on Zuko’s tailbone for a moment before pulling away.

His entire body was shaking with tension, his backside bared to whatever his father decided to do. A wave of sick helplessness washed over him. He stood no better chance of defending himself at sixteen than he had at thirteen. And something was going to _happen_.

Zuko let out a choked sob as a finger entered him, dry and burning and painful.

He gasped back protests, swallowing pleas as the finger pulled away and slammed back inside him.

Zuko retched as the hand in his hair clenched, yanking his head backwards. The pain brought him back to himself, and he held back a cry.

“This is what having sex with men _is_ , boy!” The finger jabbed harder into him. “This is what it feels like. It is painful,” another thrust, “disgusting,” a firm twist, “and wrong!”

“I’m sorry,” Zuko sobbed, trying to writhe away as unyielding hands held him hard against the floor.

“This is just a finger, Zuko. Do you need me to show you how a cock will feel? Do you need me to split you open before you realize how repulsive you are?”

Another finger breached him and he threw his head back in anguish and pain, trying to pull away, trying to escape the burning pressure.

“No, no, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I won’t! I swear, I won’t like boys, I promise, please, please stop, I don’t want to, please, _please_ I want to stop!” Zuko gagged over his panicked sobs.

“Men don’t stop when you ask,” Ozai hissed, withdrawing his fingers and shoving them back, earning another sob and a cry of pain. “Men will fuck you into the ground and never let you back up. Is that what you want, boy?”

“No,” a noise somewhere between a whine and a scream escaped his mouth as the fingers thrust deeper.

“Then never,” _thrust_ , “think,” _thrust_ , “about boys,” _thrust_ , “again!” Ozai yanked his fingers out and shoved his son away, sending him sprawling on the floor, pants around his knees. “You look like a whore,” he spat.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Zuko begged, curling in on himself, clutching the back of his head as he pushed it down into his chest.

“Disgusting child,” Ozai sneered. “Do not make me teach you this lesson twice.”

“I won’t, I won’t, I promise, I’m sorry!”

“Get out of my sight if you know what’s good for you. I can’t look at you.”

Zuko scrambled to his feet, shaking from head to toe as he pulled his jeans back up.

He’d never moved so fast in his life as he did sprint-limping up the stairs to his empty bedroom.

His skin was unbearably tight, his heart pounding uncomfortably in his chest, his breathing ragged.

Zuko launched himself into the far corner of his room and wrapped himself into a fetal position on the floor, his face inches from the wall.

He dug his nails hard into his legs as he gripped them, contorting himself smaller and smaller as he rocked.

He felt disgusting.

He could still feel the aching burn of violation, and the roar of his father’s anger and disappointment in his ears.

He wished he’d lied. He wished he’d never opened his stupid mouth. He wished he hadn’t left Uncle.

But this was his chance. His last and only chance to prove to his father that he was worth having as a son, that he was worthy of living in their home. That he was worthy of his attention.

Father only hurt him to teach him, he knew that. He knew he was a slow learner, that he never understood quickly enough, that pain was the only way to get through to him. He knew he deserved it.

But pain still hurt, no matter Father’s intentions.

Zuko curled up tighter, wiping a hand under his nose to try and clean off some of the blood. Touching it hurt. Flexing his jaw hurt. Moving his legs hurt. The dull ache at the bottom of his abdomen hurt. His back hurt. His stomach cramped with hunger.

Zuko refused to let more tears fall. It was bad enough that he’d cried during his punishment. Bad enough that he’d cried in front of Father. He wasn’t going to cry here, curled in a ball in the corner of this stark, furniture-less room.

It was a long time before he stopped shaking.

And longer before he managed to sleep.

* * *

The previous summer, Zuko and Iroh had gone camping. It was only for a week, the longest Iroh had been comfortable leaving The Jasmine Dragon in the hands of his manager, but it had been a slice of absolute perfection.

Zuko had never been camping before.

They had spent their days on long, easy walks, talking and laughing as they took photos of interesting plants and animals. Zuko had befriended a family of ducks, and a particularly nice horse.

They’d spent their evenings meditating by their campfire, warm mugs of tea in hand, breathing in time to the rise and fall of the flames.

Zuko tried very hard not to think about the previous summer.

He’d returned to his father’s house two weeks before the end of school, and hadn’t been able to go to classes with the massive bruises spattered across his already ruined face.

Father said it was because everyone would think he was weak, and disgusting, and they couldn’t afford for Zuko to disgrace them further.

Zuko couldn’t help but feel like it might be that someone at school might think it was wrong.

He quashed the thought instantly. It wasn’t wrong. Father had every right to do whatever was necessary to make him better.

But... wasn’t that why he’d been allowed home? Because he was better already? Why take him back just to train him more?

Zuko shoved the thoughts away. He was home. He should be happy. This was what he’d wanted, what he’d worked for, for _years_.

It wasn’t Father’s fault he was still broken.

But now, sitting in the room he’d been assigned in his father’s house, he couldn’t help thinking that he wished he’d stayed with his uncle.

His father had, eventually, had furniture moved into the room. Zuko had a bed, a wardrobe, a desk and a chair.

He’d bought Zuko all new clothes. Zuko knew he was supposed to be grateful. And he was. He hadn’t had so many new clothes in ages. But he couldn’t help the agonizing crawling feeling on his skin whenever the material brushed against him. Or when the tags touched the back of his neck. Or when the fabric rustled as he walked.

He hated the new clothes.

His heart ached for Uncle. For the trips they’d made to second hand stores, and the hours they’d spent feeling the insides of hoodies, washing t-shirts until they were faded and worn, patching holes in old, soft jeans so they were wearable.

Ozai had simply ordered his personal assistant to measure him and order a full wardrobe online.

Zuko hated every single item.

He’d managed to save a t-shirt from Ozai’s purge of his belongings by claiming it was a pajama top, and swearing never to wear it outside his room.

So he was sitting on the floor next to his bed, thumbing his way though a library copy of Love Amongst the Dragons, wearing only the t-shirt and some boxers, when the lock on his bedroom door clicked shut from the outside.

Panic fluttered in his chest as he wrenched himself upright.

“Hey!” He went to the door, “hey, you locked me in!”

There was no response.

Suddenly, the room plunged into darkness. Zuko’s heart hammered in his chest. He scrambled for his phone to control the smart lights, but he couldn’t find it anywhere.

Sound erupted from the speakers mounted in the corners of the room near the ceiling, and he slammed his hands over his ears.

The discordant notes were punctuated by loud screeching, and he couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be music or if it was the soundtrack to a particularly gruesome horror movie.

The lights came back on red, then turned off, then came back blue, and off and green and off and orange and off and purple and off and white and off and red and off and green.

The music got louder, and Zuko sank to the floor by the door, burying his face into his knees to block his eyes and keeping his hands firmly over his ears.

Toomuchtoomuchtoomuchtoomuch.

Panic crawled in his throat, aching at his lungs.

He was dying. The sound and the light and the pain of bruised ribs as he folded in on himself would kill him.

He wanted Uncle.

He wanted to leave.

He wanted silence and darkness and for everything to stop.

Everything stopped. The speakers went quiet, the lights returned to their normal brightness and color.

The lock on his door clicked open.

Zuko knew he needed to stand up, to move out of the line of sight of whoever opened the door. He knew he needed to pick himself up off the floor and pretend he hadn’t just been curled up and rocking, digging his fingernails into his head to stop the overwhelming sensations.

But he couldn’t move.

The door opened, and Zuko didn’t breathe.

Ozai stepped inside the room and looked down at his son.

“You disappoint me,” he said quietly. “I had expected better.”

The door closed, and locked, and Ozai was gone.

Zuko still didn’t breathe.

* * *

The longest summer of Zuko’s life was finally over.

Ozai hadn’t hit his face for a couple of weeks, to prepare him for civilization, and Zuko was absurdly grateful for it every time he rubbed his nose and didn’t have to wince away from his own fingers.

His ribs, on the other hand, were an absolute nightmare.

By the time he’d dressed, been permitted a bowl of cereal and a slice of toast, been driven to school and made it to his first class, Zuko was limping.

He refused to brace his arm across what he suspected was at least two fractures. He couldn’t risk someone asking, or phoning his father.

Only the principal’s secretary seemed suspicious at all, her eyes narrowing as he limped past her on the way to lunch.

He threw her a tired smile and a tiny wave in an attempt to throw her off, but her answering smile seemed forced.

He couldn’t think about that.

He had to study.

It wouldn’t matter that he’d managed that perfect report card the year before if he failed to keep up perfection.

And Azula had insisted that he switch into all her classes. Which meant skipping an entire grade of math, even though she was a year younger than him.

It also meant that he couldn’t take the advanced history and literature classes he had been on track to take that year.

He hated the disappointment in his teachers’ eyes as he told them he wouldn’t even be taking their lower level classes.

Azula didn’t bother with things as trivial as graduation requirements.

So his schedule was full of subjects he hated, and the smug glares of his younger sister.

He fell asleep in calculus, head drooping with absolute exhaustion. Ozai hadn’t let him sleep more than a couple of hours in a row in weeks.

He worked through lunch, eyes burning with embarrassment at how hard the first day’s homework was. He didn’t have money to buy cafeteria food, and it wasn’t as though he was allowed inside the kitchen to make his own lunch.

Whatever it was that surged up in him as he watched Azula flash her unlimited spending credit card at the cashier, it wasn’t jealousy.

Azula had earned their father’s approval, and access to his money. Zuko had not.

The driver who came to collect them at the end of the day told him Ozai had instructed that he wasn’t permitted inside the car, as it was new.

Zuko flushed with humiliation as Azula wound down the window to invite Mai and Ty Lee to ride home with her.

At least the afternoon was warm. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t made the trek up to the house hundreds of times before the burn.

Zuko buried the feeling of rejection deep in his stomach.

Yes, he’d thought his father had wanted him home.

Yes, he’d thought this was his chance to prove he was better, that he’d recovered, that he was worth having around.

Yes, he’d thought it would be easier.

But he wasn’t going to give his father another excuse to punish him by complaining.

He walked home in silence, hands deep in his pockets to keep them still.

* * *

Ozai learned many things about his son over the summer.

He learned that the boy didn’t truly start to show signs of starvation for seventy two hours. He learned that half of a decent meal, with a sizable chunk of protein, would extend that for another twenty four.

He learned that the boy needed at least two hours of uninterrupted sleep in a twenty four hour period, or he’d start passing out all over the place.

He learned that running a single finger across the ragged borders of the scar led to much quicker obedience than a hard punch to the gut.

He learned that shouting in the boy’s ear was as effective as any number of pointed insults.

He learned that the very, very best way to terrify the boy into absolute submission was shockingly easy.

All he had to do was wait for a few hours. Do absolutely nothing. Allow the boy food, water, a break from the noise and the touching.

Then, just as the tension released from his shoulders, Ozai would glide, in absolute silence, into his blind spot. He’d get within inches of the boy and make a sudden grab for his hair.

He’d twist his fist through his hair and slam him down, scar up, on the table. He’d trail a finger along the outline of the scar, running his thumb over the partially closed eyelid as his son whimpered like a dog.

He’d yank down the boy’s pants, just like he’d done that first night, and make his threats.

The threat was different each time.

Sometimes it was the real reminder of thick fingers.

Sometimes it was the vivid description of how it would feel to have a man breach the tight rings of muscle.

Sometimes it was a gentle, almost loving caress of his skin, and a spit lubed thumb rubbing carefully over sensitive spots.

Sometimes it was harsh mutterings of how he’d taken the boy’s mother in this exact position, in this room, over this table, and how he wouldn’t hesitate if Zuko stepped another _toe_ out of line.

He had never failed to reduce the child to terrified sobbing, shaking against his hands as he tried to squirm away.

Ozai learned a lot about his son.

But mostly, he learned that a single, half meant word of praise would fill the boy for days.

How the barest hint of a smile would make his fists clench in pride.

How the tiniest inkling of his approval would spur him to do anything, to complete any task asked of him.

Ozai learned a lot about his son. And he used it all.

* * *

Zuko wanted Uncle.

He wanted Uncle so bad it actually hurt, in his stomach, in his heart, behind his eyes.

He sat, for the third day in a row, in front of a plate of food, watching it grow cold as his father and sister ate in silence.

His head was heavy with exhaustion.

His body ached from bruises and training and the tension that kept his muscles taut, always on high alert for surprise attacks.

He was so, so tired.

Azula spotted her brother’s head drooping, and didn’t point it out. The bags under his good eye were hardly any different to if their father was still hitting his face.

She ate her meal in silence, glancing up occasionally at her father, trying to push back the tension that was filling her stomach.

If Father caught Zuko asleep at the table, there would be consequences for him.

If Father saw that she’d noticed and had said nothing, there would be consequences for her.

If she kicked Zuko under the table, he’d be all surprised and obvious, and there would be consequences for them both.

Not that she feared Father treating her like _Zuko_ , but... she had seen enough of her father to know what kind of man he was.

He was not the kind of man to object to hitting a fourteen year old girl on principle.

And then there was the voice.

The soft, sweet voice she hardly remembered, but could hear so clearly it hurt her head.

Her mother’s voice.

_I love you, Azula. I do. Please... protect him._

Before she’d had time to consider her options, Father noticed.

In absolute silence, he stood up.

He flashed a conspiratorial look at Azula, and she felt the cruel smile slide onto her face without her even trying.

She watched as her father snuck up behind her brother, hands raised, and did nothing.

She watched his hands slam down over Zuko’s ears, hard enough to bust his ear drums.

She heard the agonized roar erupt from Zuko’s chest as he tumbled out of his seat, clutching at the sides of his head.

_Azula! Please! Look at him! He needs you!_

Azula stared.

She watched Zuko curl up on the ground to escape the harsh kick to his chest, eyes wide and mouth open in shock.

She watched him bury his hands in his hair and tug, wrapping himself as small as possible into a ball.

She watched her father’s foot as it smashed into him, over and over.

She watched him rocking, and heard the desperate, whining grunts that seemed to claw their way out of his throat.

_Azula! Please! Please, that’s my boy! That’s my boy! Please! Azula!_

She watched as their father tugged off his belt, enraged by the disturbing noises, by the clear evidence that his son was in no way _fixed_.

Azula could see their mother, now, sobbing over her favorite child as he writhed on the ground, trying and failing to escape the blows as they landed, faster and harder, over his body.

_Azula, I love you, I swear I love you! He needs you, my darling girl! Please, protect my baby!_

Azula couldn’t move.

She had no control over her body.

Her eyes fixated on her brother as he jerked and rocked and was kicked closer to the wall until he was up against it, and every strike smashed him against the brickwork.

She took another bite of the dinner he’d been denied, and swallowed as his wretched screaming filled the house.

She’d never heard sounds like that before.

The belt hissed through the air and smacked down hard across his side.

Over and over and over.

Another bite of salmon.

Another hoarse scream.

Another yelled slur from the man she barely recognized anymore.

Another desperate plea from the woman she hardly remembered.

There was blood now.

She didn’t know what had tipped her father over the edge, only that he was far, far over it.

More voices swirled up in her head, responding to her father’s yelling, overpowering her mother’s desperate calls for help.

_Should have gagged him, if he didn’t want to hear screaming._

_Weak, sniveling, cowering little traitor._

_He can only be a fag if he’s a man. Look at him. That’s barely even a person._

_Make him stop._

_Make him quiet._

_Make him pay._

_Azula, please! Don’t listen, baby, please, please help my boy!_

_Make him hurt!_

Ozai didn’t stop. Not for longer than Azula could keep track.

Blood... everywhere.

On her father’s face.

On his hands.

Dripping from the belt.

On the wall. The floor.

And Zuko.

Zuko.

Her Zuzu.

_Make him hurt._

_Azula, sweetheart, please._

_Make him pay._

_Make him quiet._

Except he already was quiet.

The screams had stopped. Azula wasn’t even certain he was breathing.

Ozai stood in the middle of the room.

His eyes flicked between his son, bloodied and unconscious, still cowering, even in sleep.

_Weak._

_Useless._

_Make him pay._

Ozai’s eyes returned to his daughter, and she caught the trace of fear in them.

_He thinks he’s gone too far._

_Show him there’s no such thing as too far._

_The world is yours._

_Zuko is yours._

_Ozai is yours._

_Take it._

_Take it, and make them pay._

_Make him hurt!_

“Take him upstairs,” a cool voice rang out over the kitchen. “Put him in the bathtub. Then come back and clean this up. You’ll need bleach. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Azula looked down at her hands as they placed her knife and fork down neatly on her plate, at the perfect angle.

She watched herself fold her napkin and place it by her plate before finishing her glass of water and standing up.

She watched her body with slight astonishment as it moved towards Ozai. And then she watched with even greater astonishment as he turned to haul his son into his arms.

Zuko’s head lolled backwards, exposing the bruises blossoming over his face. Exposing the burn mark that would never, ever heal.

She saw it, raw and fresh as it festered on his cheek.

Blisters swelled and burst as she watched, following her father up the stairs, keeping eye contact with his glazed over eyes.

He would never have been able to stare at her for so long in the real world.

_This is the real world, my baby. Please._

This was not the real world. The real world had people, and this world had only monsters and broken things.

Ozai set Zuko down in the tub. Azula had expected him to drop the body. Or to throw it.

But he neatly arranged it so its limbs looked alive. Like he was still alive.

“Clean up downstairs,” Azula heard the girl who wasn’t quite her speak brazenly to her father.

He obeyed.

She didn’t know if his obedience was horrifying or empowering. She felt nothing.

She stood by the bathtub, staring down at her big brother.

_Make him hurt._

_Make him quiet._

_Make him pay._

_Please, sweetheart, he’s hurt enough, he’s paid already! Listen, he’s quiet, he’s quiet already, you don’t need to do anything else! Please!_

She turned on the water, and it rushed from the faucet, pooling around his body.

Before it could get wet, she pulled off his t-shirt.

He was completely limp, and flopped back against the tub as soon as she let him go.

The t-shirt was ruined.

There was blood all over it, and it was ripped all across the back.

She didn’t look down at her brother’s torso. The t-shirt was enough.

Her hands turned off the water, and she watched it slosh around his legs.

With wooden feet, she walked to her bedroom.

She had to look decent for the voices.

She stared at her hands as they shook, an overwhelming sense of betrayal sweeping over her. These were _her_ hands. She did not shake.

She tried to pull her hair into a high topknot, like she always wore for formal events.

Her hands kept slipping, her hair spilling out of the knot.

Frustration welled in her throat until it ripped out in a shout of annoyance.

She grabbed the scissors on her dressing table and ran them through her hair, snipping and detaching everything that hadn’t made it into the bun.

_Oh my sweet girl._

“Go away, mother. We don’t need you.”

_I think you need me more than ever tonight._

“You don’t have to pretend,” Azula heard herself say. She could barely think beyond her brother’s screams as they echoed in her mind. “I know you’re afraid of me. I know you think I’m a monster.”

_You’re a child, Azula. My child._

“I stopped being your child when you _left_ me!” Azula roared.

_You will always be my child. And so will Zuko._

“He’s afraid of me too.”

_You’ve learned from your father, to use fear and pain to control people._

“What choice do I have?” She heard her voice crack as she span around, clutching her roughly shorn hair. “Zuko wouldn’t even speak to me if he wasn’t afraid of the consequences of ignoring me!”

_Remember the duck pond, when you were very little? Zuko braided your hair, and you showed us your first ever kata, and he helped you feed the ducks. He loved you, with all his heart._

“I don’t _want_ that kind of love!” Azula shrieked, tears swimming in her eyes but not falling. Never, ever falling. “You should all be afraid of me! You should all fear me!”

_I could never fear you, sweetheart. I love you._

“No!” Azula’s voice broke over the force of her screamed denial, and she hurled the scissors into the mirror, smashing the glass.

Panting, Azula realized her body had already moved to the bottom draw of the dresser. She knew what was in that draw.

She stared down at the taser in her hand, caressing the plastic casing like it was something precious.

Then she was in the bathroom, sitting on the ground, watching the irregular rise and fall of her brother’s chest.

She didn’t know if it was minutes or hours before his eyes cracked open.

But she spent the whole time listening to the voices.

_Make him hurt._

_Make him quiet._

_Make him pay._

_Father will love you._

_Father will reward you._

_They’ll fear you._

_He’ll always obey._

_They’ll all be yours._

_Make him hurt._

_Make him quiet._

_Make him pay._

She watched his eyes open. Watched him try to move his limbs and find them agonizing and waterlogged.

She watched his glazed eyes travel over to her, blinking heavily.

She stood up. She towered over him in the tub, caressing the taser between her palms.

There was no point in words.

She had to do it.

Had to point the little weapon at his bruised and bloodied chest, and fire, and watch the little barbs pierce his skin, and press and press and press until he was writhing. Until his eyes rolled back into his head. Until exhausted cries gave way to high pitched, wild grunting.

_Oh Agni, Azula, you’re killing him! You’re killing him! Please, stop! Make it stop! Help him! Azula don’t, please, please, don’t let him die! Stop! Stop, just make it stop!_

“I am making it stop,” she laughed. She had no idea who was laughing. No idea where the sound came from, except that it had left her own mouth.

Zuko twitched and flailed, his muscles seizing in the pink, murky water, his eyes rolling, his back arching up.

His teeth knocked together as he threw his head back over the edge of the tub.

She released the charge button, and let the weapon fall to the ground.

He was quiet now.

He’d stopped.

He hurt.

Azula watched her brother slump, boneless, into the tub, and her mind revolted.

“No!” She yanked at her hair. “No!” She darted forward and shoved her arms under his shoulders, pulling him bodily from the tub and letting him slip onto the floor.

He was so pale, under the bruises and the blood and the rotting scar.

Her hands shook — why were her hands shaking? — as she put two fingers at his neck.

Weak. Thready. Barely there. But there.

Alive.

Azula felt her body kneel at Zuko’s hip, felt her hands wrap around each other, felt her arms stamp out a timed march on his chest.

She felt broken ribs moving under her weight.

She felt her fingers go sticky with half dried blood.

She felt her eyes blinking and her lungs breathing and her heart beating, all without her conscious thought. She felt herself, tiny inside the body she was barely using.

“What did you do?” Her head whipped around, not breaking her pattern on her brother’s chest.

Ozai.

The man who was barely her father.

The man she had done this for.

The man she had always hurt her brother for.

“Call an ambulance!” Azula’s voice roared at her father with her mother’s words. “How could you have let this happen? I hate you! Look at our children, Ozai! Look at my babies! Look what you’ve _done_!”

Ozai stared at her, eyes wide and mouth open in shock, a mirror image of his son when he’d started to beat him.

“I cleaned up,” he said slowly. “We can say it was a mugging.”

“For fucks _sake_ , Ozai!” Azula’s voice spat, echoing through the bathroom, “call an ambulance before you and your daughter _murder_ him!”

Slowly, so much more slowly than Azula and her mother’s voice wanted, Ozai pulled his phone out of his pocket and stepped out of the room to make the call.

Azula’s hands pumped relentlessly at her brother’s chest.

She didn’t stop until she was pushed out of the way by a man in blue and black.

**Author's Note:**

> Well that was... something. I’m sorry?
> 
> Comments are open to prompt ideas!
> 
>   
> For anyone who didn’t want to read this story, but needs the information to keep reading the series:
> 
> Scene 1: Zuko is back at his father’s house. Ozai is being deliberately neglectful (not providing him with furniture, food, adequate sleep etc.) in order to ‘test’ to see if he’s ‘fixed’ from his autism. Ozai brings up the fact that Zuko’s meltdown at 13 was partially brought on by him coming out as gay, and asks if he’s ‘fixed’ that. Zuko tells him he hasn’t, and Ozai punishes this with some seriously emotionally abusive sexual abuse.
> 
> Scene 2: Ozai has access to Zuko’s smart lights and sound system in his room, and ‘tests’ his ‘ability’ to cope with sensory overload by fucking with the lights and playing loud music. Zuko ‘fails’ this ‘test’
> 
> Scene 3: Zuko goes back to school, has to switch all of his classes so he’s with Azula all the time, and is exhausted. Ozai makes him walk home so he doesn’t ‘dirty’ the new car
> 
> Scene 4: Ozai’s point of view as he learns how to hurt and manipulate his son most effectively. He decides that touching the scar, threats of sexual abuse and the promise of approval are his best methodologies.
> 
> Scene 5: Zuko falls asleep at the dinner table, and Ozai beats the shit out of him. Meanwhile, Azula has a psychotic break and starts hallucinating Ursa begging her to help Zuko. She hears voices telling her to hurt her brother, and doesn’t interfere until Ozai has seriously injured Zuko. Azula ends up listening to the voices and ignoring her hallucination of her mother, and tasers Zuko in the bath (as talked about in Like it Didn’t Matter). She looses touch with reality completely when she realizes she almost killed him, and seems to channel her mother as she performs CPR until the paramedics (called by Ozai on Azula/Ursa’s instructions) arrive.


End file.
